


Into the Woods

by mariagonerlj



Category: Little Women - Alcott
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariagonerlj/pseuds/mariagonerlj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'And when she puts her mouth against that of her sister's husband, she can almost pretend she only does this merely to gain silence and peace in their pocket of smooth, bone-chilled beauty.' Jo, Laurie and a secret in the dark that could destroy everything. Jo/Laurie, Laurie/Amy, Jo/Bhaer. Explicit sex, angst, and adultery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dirt Underneath Your Knees

I swear to God, I don't know how but somehow, I ended up writing what's probably the most simultaneously sexually explicit and depressing fanfic this fandom has seen yet. I'm blaming the luminous and ridiculously talented **Rese** for this. If she hadn't updated chapter 2 of her great series Ankle, I wouldn't have caved in to her and written her a fic featuring Jo and Laurie committing adultery and cavorting in the woods. But she did and then I accepted and... well, now you know the rest of the story. ;)

In any case, massive amounts of thanks goes to my two lovely betas, **Elisabeth Harker** and **elizabethisboss.** Without your help, I would have no idea how this piece should even begin, let alone end. Thank you for once again inspiring me!

Title: Into The Woods, Part 1/2  
Characters/Pairings: Jo/Laurie, Bhaer, Amy  
Rating: NC-17

_Important Note_: This is the NC-17 rated version of the story. If you'd rather skip over the explicit sex to linger on the emotional convulsions, you can read the R-rated version archived at fanfiction.net.

***

"We could run away," Laurie whispers at the beginning of their evening, and his eyes are more desperate than they should've been given the liberties she's now allowing.

The field where their trysts begin and almost always end is dark and damp this time of year, not that it stops the either of them. Still, somewhere in the back of Jo's mind, she thinks of her mother warning her that the woods would be the death of her if she didn't pay them more mind, if she didn't stop dawdling in them every time she went on her way to Aunt March's and came home with a cold from hours and hours of tracing icicles shining atop tree branches.

And somewhere even further back, she thinks of tales she's heard of the woods, the whispers and stories, the words formed between circles of girls and beneath bed-covers, the words she's spun out for her sisters with bloody satisfaction, as she had entertained them with her stories of girls lost in the dark, lost in the woods, never to return home fully.

She doesn't smile now, not at him or the memory. They both hold too many shadows for so innocent an expression.

"We can't run," she reminds him, voice dull in her own ears. "We've got too much tying us down. We can't just imitate the wind, you know. We're only human beings."

"And why," he whispers, and his fingers are cold on her bare face despite his gloves, "do you continue to pass these needless restrictions on yourself, despite what you could achieve?"

And when she looks at him in wordless answer, his eyes gleam feverishly with a light that could come only from the dark.

He's terrified her many a times before but never as much as he terrifies her here.

"Hush," she says, in lieu of an answer.

And when she puts her mouth against that of her sister's husband, she can almost pretend she only does this merely to gain silence and peace in their pocket of smooth, bone-chilled beauty.

The air around them is icy, is wet, is much too cold for what he's tempted her to come out for now. It's madness to follow him here, amidst the pale white and blue backdrop of snow, inside the shining cover of dark, in that one place where the eyes of others cannot see how much they are betraying. But whenever he stands outside the shadows of Plumfield and beckons, she knows she will come down to meet him whatever the weather, her hair undone and her dress barely fixed, far more desperate than she had ever been as a girl, far more desperate and deceiving.

When the lights in Plumfield hit him in the dark, shadows stood out in his face in sharp relief and she could almost swear she sees his mouth curve up like that of a strange beast's.

When he tightens his fingers on her collarbone possessively as he takes over their embrace, she realizes the truth might be far worse than even her strange fancies.

It's not hard to believe that what she feels in his arms might well be a form of sorcery, some spell enacted to keep her running to his long shadow whenever it fell on her presently. It must be part and parcel with the feel of his hands as they race down her back, with the calluses of his finger-tips as they ripple past her ribs, with the feel of his mouth as it traces lines into her skin, marks her with more pure possessiveness than even his piano would could receive from him.

His mouth is, as always, is almost distressingly soft and hot, nearly painfully electric. And even before she gives herself over, she can feel his tongue darting out to trace the line of line of her collar, overlapping the curve of her cheek and the tip of her own tongue, until she ends up gasping like a child, frightened, helpless, lost, alone, holding on to whatever might touch her in the dark.

_Helpless_, Jo thinks and fights back a sudden shudder at only God knew what, knowing she was being ridiculous.

And yet the thought is still enough to make her hands tremble as they roam the slice of skin between his collar and his chin, makes them shake hard and falter, make them slide off of him as though he were repellent suddenly.

He notices and his eyes gleam like a river of oil as they gaze out at her, his face suddenly transformed by surprise into something young and sweet and very nearly innocent, concern making him once again knowable in the chill night.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and her stomach clenches at the noise, and the honest concern behind it. "Is it too cold for you out here? Are you... do you not want to, currently?"

He is giving her a way to duck down. He does not do that all that often during one of their witching hours. And if she and her moth-eaten heart had even an inch of pity left in it, she would have taken it, grasped it with the fervor of a dying man. Would have taken this time to finally cast him out. Would have sent him back home peacefully.

She turns on her heels and almost runs back to her house. But she leaves the door open to him and only the fact that he come in without a word of invitation marks him as something other than a creature of only fang and teeth.

(Although what did that mean anyhow? The darkest places in a man were always underneath his breast beating.)

In Plumfield, a house given by an old woman who had thankfully had no idea what Jo is capable of doing, she stands by the banister and blinks back tears and thinks: _This is not my life. This is not who I am, nor even who I was, and certainly not who I was meant to be._

And then Laurie is there and he is stroking her hair and pressing his face down her neck, between her breasts, and cloth parts like paper beneath his long, clever, spiderish fingers, as though she were nothing more than a mannequin doll, all ready for her unveiling. His lips glide along her and she shudders as his teeth bite along lobe, cheek, collar, and chin before descending down south, crescendoing up and down her legs until she is almost breathless again, her knees already knocking.

"Don't tell me you don't want this," he murmurs, and the hell of it is that when it comes to her, he's almost never wrong.

"And don't tell me you won't follow me," she snaps back, and is alight up the stairs again before he can catch her, her dark curls waving as wildly as a war banner as she clambers up with him behind her, his breath like that of a wolf as he exhales and follows her up, up, up, up, somehow further up into the breach.

_I'll teach you tricks that your mind won't even be able to conceive of,_ he had once promised her before, and he hadn't been lying. The memory snags in her mind and makes her thighs quiver as she races on as though she could outrun desire itself, finally like the wind itself when she outruns the hidden snags and coils of want he made in her with just the snap of his teeth.

He catches her at the top of the banister, and when she catches him looking, her wrists are already trapped between his fingers, caged helplessly. His lips part and the shine between his teeth when he catches her looking is a little obscene.

He says, suddenly, "You can't marry that old man. I won't let you do that to yourself-- I won't let you do this to yourself and _rot_."

She swallows and replies, her own teeth bared. "You're a fine one to tell me what I should do in my marital bed. You haven't exactly been keeping your own life serene."

His fingers clench down harder on her wrists and she wishes she could say her resulting gasp was from pain only. "I asked _you_ first, Jo. I asked you _first_! It isn't my fault that you would have rather run like a child. It isn't _only_ my fault we're here!"

The world blurs before her eyes, as though the faint frost of the outdoors had moved into the manor she tended for him here. "Maybe not. But you didn't have to make the choices you went through with. Not with my sister. Not when you knew I was--"

_Waiting._ For him to come back. For him to ask again. For him to do what ought to have been done already.

And as though he knew, he softens. And Jo damns herself once more for knowing he would. For knowing what she could bring him to.

"I know," he says, and swallows himself. "I know and I'm sorry. And I regret it. So much. If only I knew..."

And he is, she knows, and he does. Just as she does, and just as keenly, and just for so much. For the future they abandoned and the present they have created and the people they are hurting as they stare at each other, the flickers of candles in the winter all that lights them up.

Jo thinks of golden curls and gentle, spotted hands spreading open the pages of a book. The people that they are betraying. The people who are depending on them.

The people who they ought to cherish and love.

"We ought to stop," she says, suddenly, abruptly. "This is madness, and you know it. We're risking everything for-- for what? A few stupid, stolen moments? Things that should to mean nothing to us?"

"Yes," he says, and his voice is so agreeable it makes her bones hurt. "Yes, we are. Yes, we must. Yes, we ought to be. Only..."

With him, there's always an only. And if he lets her wrists go free now, it's only so he can use those clever hands of his to contort dark circles around her hips and hold her to him, in a different way of being caged in through trust.

"Only, If we can have just one more time," he says, and his smile comes out nearly shy and crooked. "Since we're already here and... and it would help me come to terms soon enough..."

His eyes tell a different story but fool that she is, she nods at him anyway.

_Maybe_, she thinks, like a stupid, trusting child. _Maybe he's being honest now._

His nails make a bracelet of marks around her palms and she gestures to her small little bedroom at the top of the stairs and asks him, very softly, to come in already, while the dark still held him calm.

He smiles at her and it's the smile of a carnivore and she knows, somewhere, deep down into her bones, that she's doing something wrong.

And still, she can't take it back. Still, hope has her now.

"Thank you," he says, as though she were offering him a courtesy, and she turns her face away from him as soon as his fingers undo the first button on his fine coat's collar.

Eight minutes later, he stretches out, pale and naked and all too ready, across the axis of her bed. Seven minutes after that, she is trapped beneath him, panting already and bereft of any dress. Another ninety seconds pass before he pushes himself up atop by his elbows and presses pale, thin lips to the shivering skin nape of her neck. And in another thirty seconds, and his tongue is lapping at her throat as though he were thirst incarnate and she a spring ready to sate him until nothing more is left.

Three more minutes rise and follow, and he follows the path of her flesh further down again. Thirty more seconds after that, and he is biting a path of fire down her spine as one of his hands pins her shoulder down and the other clenches hard on her breast.

She measures time carefully so as not to cry aloud when he begins the long, slow, torturous efforts of losing himself in her flesh. And yet, as soon as he he speaks again, she knows she is lost and the effort is as nothing, that she might as well have not even begun trying to elude him.

"Don't tell me you don't want this," he murmurs, and time for her loses all meaning, the clocks in her mind in disarray when he begins kissing her freely, as though she has already given in.

Laurie's mouth is hot as it trails down the supine curve of her spine, undaunted by her shivering, undaunted by the way her nails rake down her covers like knives as he continues on with his tender press. Even were there layers and layers between his mouth and her skin, even were they still wrapped within cocoons of silk and cotton and linen, she knows she might have been able to ignore the feel of every single ridge and notch of his tongue, every single tremor from the click of his teeth, every time his nails found a way to sink in. But they aren't and he isn't and she can't, she _can't_, and as he traces up and down the delta of her back, she finds she is barely breathing, that she is already falling apart and into him.

He chuckles and she feels it ripple through the panes of her back, the curve of her belly, the flushed points of her nipples, the suddenly helpless curl of her toes, her thighs splayed open with submission. He laughs, and it ripples through her until she has to hold onto her pillow to not groan back and show him how much he could still do to her, despite Amy, despite Friedrich, despite everything that ought to warn her away from him, despite everything that still separates them.

A sigh, and then his cheek presses against her tender skin, the faint stubbles there scraping it again, though more gently than it had during their first great descent.

(The first time, there had been a letter in his hand, there had been her desperate words enshrined on parchment, there had been harsh words, there had been low refusals and even lower acquiescences, and then there had been his fingers and her shaking wrists, and his mouth and her stubborn lips, and a moment after that had found her falling apart against him.

"I didn't think this would make you _that_ unhappy," he had said, a little brokenly, even as his fingers had threaded through her hair.

"It's not that," she had said, though it was, and managed a smile through the sodden mess. "It's just that-- your chin hair. The color confuses me and it-- it scratches like the devil in the most uncomfortable places imaginable."

"Oh," he had finally said, and then settled down to kiss her nose, as though they had not just done something awful. "Then let's do something of it."

Amy had not look best pleased about his shaved face but later, as he had twined his fingers about her golden tendrils at their family picnic, he had looked up and straight at Jo and smiled, just a little bit.

_This is for you,_ the smile had said. _This was done for you, only for you, as near everything in my past._

And that was when she had first known that his marriage would not be their end.)

"What are you thinking?" he asks, and she presses her flushed face to the cool pillows beneath it and takes a slow, drugged breath.

"Nothing," she answers almost honestly, when she can, and he laughs softly yet again.

"Let's change that," he whispers back, and heat trails across the small of her back and the swell of her hips to the soft curves below and the cleft right beneath them.

_Oh God,_ she thinks, though it does not stop her from curving up like a crest of tidal water, about to crash on something clean and cruel, something that would strip her of bone and flesh.

Palms against her ankles, he opens her up slowly, as though she were something to linger on, something to feast within on a chilly winter's eve that left his table otherwise stripped and bare. He opens her and she stretches herself out; he leans forward and she hisses at the deliberate tremor of his breath, at the silken feel of his hair. Strands of it preceded his lips by mere seconds, and when his teeth finally introduce themselves to her once again--

Jo thinks, almost madly, _does he do this as well to his wife? Am I the only one so blessed?_

And then he presses forward and his tongue invades the narrowest part of her and all thought escapes the present.

The first time he had done this (that she had _allowed_ him to do this), she had thought she might shatter from what he had teased out within the surface of her thighs, from her belly, from her hips, from her erratic heart, and from a million other unknown elements. The first time he had done this (in a meadow, in the haze of spring, in a picnic they'd abandoned for far darker pleasures), she had thought she might well die of the tremors he had induced deep within, in the thousand little earthquakes that started deep down between her thighs and within his fingers, that had rocked her up and would have given them away had he not taken the precaution of gagging her to begin with. The first time he had done this (and she had let him, she had almost _begged_ him, and wasn't that the hell of it?), she had thought there would be nothing left of her but bleached bones in the aftermath, as she had sunk back into his arms and looked into his fervid eyes and wanted to no longer exist.

She had thought and thought and thought that during their second time. And their third time. And perhaps even their fourth time as well. And now, it's been long enough that only echoes of it come back to her as she claws ineffectually at the pillows beneath her and keens out loud for an end.

There's little earthquakes again, trapped somehow between her thighs and the ends of her skin, and she would move her hips up and away were it not for his hands clamped tightly around them, she would, she _would_, she would move away--

And yet, she knows as she hisses at the feel of his slick, faintly muscular tongue moving against her, she would always come back again.

Laurie's fingers hold her tight and she can barely move but when she does, it's always toward him.

He spreads her open as though she were a delicacy, something sweet and fresh and flower-scented, something that needed to be bared. He spreads her open and his lips fall like a rain all over her, all over, as though all that the smooth, damp delta between her thighs needed was the aching tenderness of Laurie applying himself again. He kisses her, and it's incongruously light and gentle, as though he were bowing down to touch her cheek in front of a group of children. He nuzzles sweetly against her opening as though he had all the time in the world with her, and it's not enough, it's just not _enough_, and though her knees buckle and she tries hard to shift herself closer, to gather him back inside her, he keeps the space between them nearly tortuously polite and she can't-- she can't--

Her next breath come out low and nearly as a sob, and when he chuckles against the smooth curves just above her swell, she almost wishes she could curse him.

"You only needed to show me you wanted this," he tells her, almost chidingly, and then applies himself to her again, without abandon, as though he had a right to have whatever she could give.

And that was all it takes, apparently, because even before she can take another breath to tell him off, he steals it away by stretching her open once more and finally _licking_ his way within. She should have known this, should have been prepared for this-- she has done this too many times with him to claim that she's any innocent. She's done this and dreamed of this even more, for even longer, and she can't say she hasn't tried to prepare, hasn't thought a thousand times of what could finally make him diminish in her mind, finally render him insignificant.

But even as her knees buckle and she moans face-down against her pillows, she knows there's no way to prepare for him.

Not him, not Teddy, not Theodore, not Laurie-- not even when he went about pretending to be respectable and happily married Mr. Laurence. And certainly not when he was with her, splaying out her legs and-- God, why _not_ say it?-- _taking_ her, taking her with his teeth, _taking_ her as though he had a right to her. Taking her, his tongue hot and fervid and very nearly vicious, scraping along all her inner ripples and ridges. Taking her, and making her cry out by both giving her too much and yet not enough, keeping his fingers to himself so far, not yet penetrating her, teasing her until she was shaking with it. Taking her, and taking her to pieces with it, holding back until the burn in her belly has her by the throat, until she is ready to _break_ with it--

"More," she whispered hoarsely, and felt herself trembling so hard it was a wonder she was still a whole person. "Don't-- Teddy-- don't you _dare_ tease me so--"

Jo could feel the imprint of his smile against her swollen wetness, as though he had finally won something he shouldn't have ever had.

"All right," he murmured behind her, somewhere in the winter's dark. And then she felt one of his lovely hands abandon its post by her cold ankle and slowly travel up, calluses flickering against her curves with years of want before he reached his destination.

She has one last moment's worth of incoherence left to her, and then his thick thumb travels from the swollen hood of her pleasure and against her silky folds and then finally up, twisting casually against and then _inside_, as though the gesture meant nothing to him.

It's enough to make her hips jerk, hard, in a way that might have loosened from his grip were it not so tight on her. And when she speaks again, it's barely in the human tongue, let alone the English language.

"That wasn't--" she begins, and gasps when he interrupts her words with his mouth suckling at whatever inner folds it could reach as his fingers burned their way through her, as he pistioned and pressed parted her from within, fingertips buried so deep in her it almost hurts. "That's not-- that's not what I-- I meant--"

But her words are swallowed up by his leisure, by his laughter, by languid lashes of his tongue that send earthquakes spiraling up and down the curve of her spine, by the almost cruel flex and jut of fine, pianist fingers inside and against her as he takes her so close to her breaking point that it's almost like torture to simply keep tottering and not yet falling off the edge.

"Please," she gasps, and wonders if this will be enough to kill her. "Please-- just-- I need _more_\--"

"Shhhh," he almost soothing says in between the wet, obscene sounds of him taking strange pleasures against her. "This shall be our last time by ourselves, shan't it? So you may as well put up with my strange notions for just a few moments longer."

And if she hadn't known him so well, she might not have even realizes it was pain in his voice just then. But even as her eyes go wide, she can feel him withdraw both his fingers and his lips from her, his teeth clicking together as though to retain the taste of her. And when she can finally bring her head up to peer at him over her shoulder, she can see herself smeared messily on lips he did not even bother to clean up as his dark eyes stared at her with furious intent.

"It will be, won't it?" Laurie says again, and his voice is almost vicious with thwarted tenderness, and she has to swallow hard against the hot bellow of his breath.

"I don't know," she finally says, and can feel frustrated love beating low and dark in her own breast. "I want to be with you. That's the only thing I _can_ tell you. But I just don't know _how_ to. I never have."

That's all she says, and it's somehow enough. In another moment, his fingers ease along her hips and his eyes gentle just a little bit and he smiles again, just around the corners of his lips, and just as it had been before, she knows it's a smile made only for her, one that can come only from him.

"I love you," he says, and she knows these were words only she would ever hear from him. "And I will not want anyone else the way I want you, not ever. No matter what other ways I may find to ruin this."

And because she is a coward, because she does not want to ruin this, she sighs and shudders and turns to lie with her back to her pillows and covers, her hands reaching up to bring her to him.

"Hush," she whispers, and he is reaching over her, stretching above her, his lips already so close to a kiss. "Don't talk now. Just be with me." And wishes it will be enough for him.

It isn't, it isn't nearly. It never, ever is. If love were ever enough, they wouldn't be so haunted.

He knows that, just as well as she does. They both know who's really to blame for this.

And still he loves her enough to laugh brokenly and give himself back in.

"All right," he says, and touches her face, and is nearly the boy she loved once again. "Just this once. Just for you. As every thing's always been."

And when his hand drift up to touch her breast and take in the beat of her heart, she wishes the world still for him.

***

**Author's Note**: As always, I very much appreciated any and all comments, questions and bits of constructive criticism! Let you know if you've enjoyed this and more porn shall be forthcoming. ;)


	2. Filthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jo and Laurie betray every -one and -thing.

The second and last part of Into the Woods, for the enviably productive Rese. As always, massive amounts of thanks goes to my two lovely betas, **Elisabeth Harker** and **elizabethisboss.** You two are utterly invaluable, honestly, ♥ And thanks again to all the wonderful-- and brave!-- people who read and reviewed part 1 of the story. If I write more strange configurations of smut for the fandom, it will most certainly be for you. ;)

Title: Into The Woods, Part 2/2  
Characters/Pairings: Jo/Laurie, Bhaer, Amy  
Rating: NC-17

***

The first time he had done this (that she had _allowed_ him to do this), she had thought she would not be able to take everything he had given over to her, his heart or his warmth or his strength. The first time he had done this (in a meadow, in the heat of summer, in a picnic they'd abandoned for far darker pleasures), she had thought she might well collapse from the heat of him pressing beneath suddenly liquid skin, as though the sinews that held her together might collapse from the strain of taking him in. The first time he had done this (and she had let him, she had almost _begged_ him, and wasn't that the hell of it?), she had thought there would be nothing left, as the stars galloped in and out of her eyelids as he bewitched her until she felt _she_ should have carried on his name instead of the sister he had taken instead.

Jo had thought that the first time. And in the sixth, the fifth, the fourth, the third, and the second.

This time, their seventh time in as many months, she presses her hands to his hair. His mouth strains against hers, staining her lips with her own wetness, and she feel him arch his back against her, one hand between her legs, the other one stroking her cheek. Her eyes flutter shut, half in surprise and half in pleasure, and she feels him laugh gently against her, his tongue flicking out to stroke her lower lip, though she'd never enjoyed the sensation, even at present.

_Men,_ she huffs inside her head, but before she can open her mouth to complain, he smiles down at her and cocks his hip back a little and--

\--And _presses._ Right there. Right _against_.

And suddenly, she looks at him, eyes wider than the stars, and finds no room for complaints left.

"I love this too," he murmurs against her, eyes bright, so cocky she could nearly scream. And when he begins to move inside her, the warmth left by his lips aiding him, his presses and caresses turning just a little bit rougher, just a little more _intent_, she finds her throat becomes occupied with other noises entirely.

It never fails to surprise her, how he feels inside her, how he fills her up, how he makes the whole world seem coiled between her knees. It hadn't been the first time-- their first time, when she had been so narrow and raw with inexperience and he so thick that it had been a wonder she had been able to fully accommodate him. But it's been seven months since then, and still it's all she can do now to arch her own back and slide her legs up to his boyish hips, her ankles locking up against each other so she can keep a grip and make sure he knows that she isn't about to yield to his charms quite _so_ easily.

This time, it's his turn to have his eyes flutter shut with surprise, although he jerks back to consciousness more readily than she does, his teeth glistening when he begins grinning.

Beneath her lashes, she can see his eyes darken again, the wolf in him once more appearing.

"You've never done that before," Laurie whispers, and he arches again, settling firmly inside her, making warmth blossom in her from her cleft to her dark curls. "What brought this change on currently?"

She manages a smile, her blunt nails stroking his back, and before he can say another word, _tightens_ on him firmly. She coils her inner self about him like a vice, like a clamp, like a bracelet tightening on him momentarily before relaxing. She coils around him as hard as she can and before he is almost done gasping, she relaxes and runs fingers through his damp hair, her face gazing at him beatifically.

"Change?" she asks, almost innocently, knowing that they are playing once more as they may never play again. "What change?" And when he growls and she laughs brightly at his frustration, she can almost forget that he isn't hers and she isn't his and they have no right-- no right whatsoever-- to be doing this, in her bed, in the house that the aunt who had re-introduced him to his wife had so generously granted.

It's less difficult than it should be to block out those remembrances and memories, especially when he hangs over her again. He parts his lips, and the memory of Amy looking helplessly at them underneath her cloud of limp hair folds itself over and tucks itself neatly away. He presses a kiss to her chin, and the memory of Friedrich's mouth parting softly against hers beneath a sodden umbrella blew away with the feel of his smooth, damp hair. He groans at the feel of her hand at the very tip of their joining, and even betrayal draws itself away with a single puff of his shaky breath.

He begins to grind himself against her with a stifled sigh and she forgets everything in the world simply to be with him again.

The first time they had done this, he had pressed her against the bark of a tree that had stretched out to encompass her, and she had ached days later from the weight and press of his length. The first time, they had been clumsy and sodden and guilty and wretched and unable to tear themselves from each other, thinking they would never touch each other after, so hungry their ached with it. The first time, she had told him not to ever come near her again, had told him to go back to his wife and do whatever he had to to make amends, and sat down and written to Friedrich, asking him to come visit her, telling him she needed a friend.

And he had come, with his sad eyes and his gentle smile and his world-weary skin, miles and miles away from the man she had coupled with, and wanted still in her bed. Friedrich had come and she had looked at him and thought: _I could love this man one day. He could be my deliverance from sin._

They had announced their engagement a bare week later. Laurie had smiled and smiled with warm, bright eyes and looked just as pleased at her impending happiness as any of the rest of her kin. And fool that she was, she had almost convinced herself into believing that he would let her go so easily, so quickly, as though she had finally made him see sense.

Laurie cornered her the night afterward and kissed her until all her fine morals turned to powder and here they are again.

Here they are, she on her back and he atop her, as primitive as the first man and woman might have. Here they are, and for all her fine hopes and dreams, she is splayed open and welcoming for a man others would call her brother and God help her, she _wants_ him.

Here they are again-- and when she flexes again, he falls flush into her as though he were sheathing a knife, stabbing into her completely open body, and she arches her back and tightens her ankles and whispers: "Oh God, don't you _dare_ stop just yet."

"I shan't," he promises, and he could be the devil himself as he withdraws himself from her until she is breathless-- only to have her lungs seek desperately for air when he forces himself back in again, his body taut as he felt her coiling again around him, soft and ridged and blood hot fall the way from root to tip.

Only it's not a matter of force, not at all, not when she lay against him so willingly. Maybe it would have been better, in a way, if he had been forcing her, if he had been holding her own perfidy upon her head. But that isn't who he is and that isn't who _she_ is. And when he begins to rock against her now, slowly at first and then more frantically as the night draws on, it feels as though drums beat beneath the flow of her blood and she is willing, all too willing, and God help her, with him she almost always has been.

Except for once, when he had asked and she had pushed him away from the fear of loving any man.

Except for once, and that once had been more than enough to ruin the both of them.

He's calling her name now, low and helpless, pressing himself in her again. He's calling his name and he's moving forward, moving, and she's moving with him. He's like the sea, the sea, the great waves of the sea, and she's the shores he breaks himself against, white-foamed, red-faced, white-flecked. He's moving forward, and she's moving with him, and they move in concert, as though they were in play, as frantic and tender and loving and mad as they had been the first time he had held her in his arms, the first time they had given in as children, moving frantically in a dance half-remembered their first evening together. He moves, and she moves with him, and their hips buck as though they were wild animals, miles and worlds of morality away from the way she had thought love would once be like, chaste and sweet and slow, not frantic moments in the candle-lit depths of winter, not stolen moments away from her intended and his wife, terrible and wretched moments.

He moves and she moves with him, and she wonders of what he is thinking now, what makes the kisses he presses down on her mouth and collar and the tips of her breasts rain down on her like fierce hail, what made him flush all over, what made made him cry out loud again.

_So beautiful_, she thinks in the only part of her that remains half-coherent. _So beautiful and so much for me to have..._

And he is, even with only half a candle's worth of light spilling down on him, even with his face in shadows and his eyes cloaked within their heavy lids, his brows clenched as he gritted his teeth, stretching her out from within. And even as the tips of her fingers graze the edges of his point of penetration, stroking herself as he had taught her so many months before, she cannot in any way possible take her eyes away from him.

Dark brows, heavy lids, parted lips, long nose, laughing eyes, slender and imperfect chin--

Strong back, tender lips, dark hair, ready calluses-- and all about her and all around her, such terribly pale, hot skin--

The most beautiful man she had ever met, splayed out upon her and making her ache all the way deep within.

The only man she would ever want in her bed, moving into her with such desperation she could barely contain him still.

He moves and she moves with him, her fingers clawing against his taut neck as he presses his lips to hers again. He moves and she moves as well, hissing and crying out at his constant intrusions. He moves and she moves as well, feeling herself burn and ache and shudder against his rough motions. He moves and she moves as well, even as she almost sobs as he lifts her ankles up to his shoulders, deepening his angle of penetration.

He moves, and she looks up and sees that terrible light in his eyes, the thing that made her cleave to him.

He moves, and the love she sees in him is more than enough to send her to her end.

Her breath is shallow and ragged when she nears her finish, every single nerve in her body seeming to tighten for an instant as she grips and gasps against him. In all the seven times that they've done this, he's never failed to bring her to this point-- or failed to make her wonder each time if she would finally die from it. She's always been too healthy for death to gain a hold on her, had rarely ever felt the brush of fever on her brow or experienced a painful loss of breath-- and yet this is enough to make her think she's on the brink of it, this fierce little spasm that coils where his body meets hers, this fierce, unending burning between her legs.

Her face jerks up and her eyes meet his and she sees the triumph in them.

"Yes," he breathes, his voice low and yearning, and his fingers replace hers where he's jutting into her flesh. "God, Jo-- _yes,_, Jo-- come on, Jo-- for _me_, Jo--" Sounds, syllables, words she can barely stand to listen to when his calluses trace the pearl of her pleasure and her legs turn to liquid around him.

"For me," he groans, voice like velvet as his hips continue to move and he slides past her defenses, smoothing rough edges as her hands twist and grip at the tendrils of his hair. "For me, in me, on me, _with_ me--"

And just like that, a little death.

Somewhere outside the vicissitudes of her body, she can feel him raise her hips ever more urgently, could feel him pull her further into his flesh. Somewhere outside the lines of her direct consciousness, she can feel him groan at the feel of her around him, rhythmic apparently beyond forbearance. Somewhere where she could only vaguely grope for understanding, she can almost see the sudden ecstasy overcoming his sweat-slicked face, a look of universal pleasure somehow tailored only for him.

And somewhere inside, she shudders and buries her nails in his neck and whispers her name for him as she follows him down in the darkness, heat pulsing through her, nerves in disarray, almost absently feeling his teeth scrape down the column of her throat and sink deep into her neck.

It probably only lasts seconds objectively. It may have been a century for all of that. She can barely keep track of her own movements, let alone the flow of time or anything outside the bubble they've built around them. There's only she and he in this place, the cresting burn finally, temporarily, cooling down between them. And after they finish arching against one another, their bodies twisting and the relaxing like finally loosened ribbons, there's only she and he, panting against each other, resting their sweat-slicked bodies, laughing with the last remnants of their breath.

And when she can finally look up as she feels him withdraw before spending himself inside her fully, she feels almost strangely scraped clean in their aftermath.

She knows she shouldn't have.

After all, this is filth and they are filth for so desperately wanting this, for giving them over to this most terrible of bliss.

She doesn't have the right to look over him as he collapses next to her and smile sleepily and think: _This is what I needed._

The candles barely burn in the darkness now; they must have spent at least an hour in this repast. An hour she should have spent writing to her dear Friedrich, only a month away from joining her on her wedding day, and he should have spent with his wife, beautiful and increasingly grave, tucked away in their marital bed.

She looks away, and the burn in her body suddenly collects in her eyes.

Filth. That's all that they are. Perhaps that's all they'll ever be in the end.

It's too much to expect he wouldn't notice, that he wouldn't make that damnably tender noise he always made in the back of his throat, and press his fingers to her hair again.

(He's always so gentle in the aftermath and Jo wishes, just for once, he'd be a little bit crueler, a bit more the obvious villain, a bit more a man she wouldn't love to her dying breath.)

"What's wrong?" he whispers, and his voice is so, so tender, as tender as if they were innocent children once again. "Did I hurt you again?"

Jo almost wants to cry out for a minute, at the irony of his words. And when she finally speaks, her words are low and bitter and addressed to the wall of her bedroom as she curls away from him.

"Everything we're doing hurts someone, Teddy." She swallows hard. The candles flicker. "You already know that."

She did not glance over at him as he sighs beside her, but she could picture his smile in her mind's eye, knew it would be exceedingly ironic. "Every day, I learn I know far less about the world than I thought I did. But yes, sometimes I do think that. Just as I think that--"

"Say it," she says wearily, when his voice falters. She knows what's coming. Has known it since she first saw him rear his head in the night. "I know you want to, so just say it."

He sighs for a minute, and it's long enough to let her thinking-- with a bubble of hope, with a tremble of despair-- that maybe she was wrong about him after all. Maybe he will let her slip by quietly after this end. Maybe they can once again be brother and sister, once again be simple friends, once again be able to look at each other in the eyes outside her bedroom without wanting to die from the shame of it.

_Maybe... Oh God, maybe..._

Her fingernails cut bloody half-moons on her palms and she waits for him again.

"Don't marry your bloody Professor," he whispers, and under the tone of his voice, she can almost hear the sound of his insides cracking. "You don't love him and you don't owe him a life of servitude. He'll lead you to your ruin."

She knows she should have expected this, knows it, _knows_ it. But even as she jerks down and away, her mouth tastes of copper and disappointment.

"You're not doing any better for me," she whispers, and hears him take a quick breath. "He's a good man and he loves me and I can't-- I can't live like this anymore, not even for another seven months. I can't-- _I can't!_ And don't you dare ask me to. I don't want to be the woman you bottle up until you're ready to set me free for your use."

He touches her neck with shaking fingers; she takes an equally shaky breath.

"I love you," he says, and even if his tone is gentle, his words are so cruel. "And I have never thought that of you like that."

And the hell of it is that she knows he's not lying. With her, he almost never has.

"We could run away together," he says again, and though she does not look at him, she knows he looks at her, and can imagine the grim patience on his face, the tender madness, the unrelenting resolution, the slow and never-ending despair. "Just you and I, like thieves in the night. We'll leave Amy my fortune and she'll find solace with better men. We can go to London or Paris or Milan or Rome, and lose ourselves in the crowds therein. You'll write and I'll play and compose and we'll carve out a living somehow. We'll be just what we've wanted to be, all our lives. And we'll be so happy, you and I."

She knows without looking who he is thinking of; she knows all too well of his strange providence.

"So happy," he whispers and she knows, and he knows, that they never will. That they very simply _can't_.

That this is the one thing, of all things, that she will never, ever allow.

"You don't need me for that," she whispers, hoping it's true, hoping she can _make_ it true. "You don't need me for anything, since you've already acquired what you want to have. You don't need to lead your grandfather's life, with or without me anyhow."

He laughs, and she knows without even looking that his eyes are narrow and his smile is grim and he has no hope in this, no way of reaching a resolution.

"What would you have me do?" he asks, though she knows the question is academic. "Would you have me wait until grandfather is safe in his grave and sell it all off, then? Would you have me live the life of a starving artist while the fortune withers trying to support my mansion and the style of life to which I've become accustomed? Would you have me sacrifice all the baubles I have off for the sake of a dream when I've already been told that those of no great genius may as well give in?"

She takes a shaky breath, holds the pillow closer. "Why would you listen to anyone who would tell you that? Why, when you've ended up so miserable you have to turn to _me_ for consolation?"

He takes a breath; she can read centuries in it, in his every move and refrain.

"That's not what you are," he says, and she wishes she did not know him so well, could not tease out the notes of sincerity in the midsts of so much chill and pain. "And you know as well as I do that I don't turn to you for the sake of mere appeasement."

And she thinks of his dreams and her dreams and the music he plays for her when they are together, under the watchful eyes of others. His old compositions for which she pens lyrics to set him back to the work he truly loves, over and over and over.

("You shouldn't," he had told her once. "I was going to write an opera for you and then the heroine became your sister. You should leave it undone."

And she had looked at him and thought of his hands falling all over her, all _over_, and said-- even through the sound of something cracking in her breast-- "No. You should finish this. You could fall in love with Amy all over again.")

"I know nothing of that sort," she finally says, and her fingers twitch underneath her, as though holding the flat of a pen. "I don't know why you do these things to yourself. Why do you allow yourself to be miserable? Why and for what reason?"

And she does not turn but she does still burn and she knows that if she were to look at him, he'd be staring wistfully at her.

"Amy," he says, and his voice is sweet and low, "will never, ever forgive me if I became a pauper. I've already done so much to her. I can't also deprive her of her rank."

Another small eternity passes, she staring at the wall in front of her, he gazing at the back of her head. When he finally rises to get up and dress, she does not bother to pick herself up, only sits and listens to the sound of him as he prepares to leaving her for the life that he's chosen instead. And even when he speaks again, she will not speak, fisting her hands into her hair to avoid answering him.

"Even if you marry, you'll still let me in when you can, won't you? Whenever we have the chance? Whenever I can come back?"

She makes no reply, forces herself to silence. And finally he laughs again, throat closing over bitterness, and says: "Then I suppose this means it's over at long last."

She shutters her face until she hears him walk away. And when he's begins to close the door, she rolls over and touches the place on her bed where she can still feel the warmth from his bare skin, where he ought to be, where she knows it's all gone wrong.

It's only the last mistake she'll make in the evening, but also the most important one. And before she can withdraw her hand, she hears the door open again, hears his footsteps trail into the room-- and hears him take the image of her in, before she can fully turn around.

"Jo," he says suddenly, wholly unexpectedly, and she flinches at the sound, sits up, stares disbelieving at him. She stares and he stares back and she knows, God help her, that the inevitable will continue here, that every decent thing she's tried for has stopped.

"You really do love me, don't you?" he begins, his voice a sharp, startled, disbelieving murmur. "And you truly would miss me were I fully lost?"

She had thought he was gone. She had thought she was _safe._

As always, she had been so, so wrong.

And when she cranes her neck to look into his eyes, she can see the wild dancing in them.

"You'll be waiting for me," he says, and this time it isn't a question. "The first chance we get, when he's away. This isn't an end."

And the hell of it is that when it comes to this, Laurie's never, ever wrong. Not even when he should have been.

She closes her eyes again and nods, just once, because she knows she's already gone. And when he stumbles forward to touch her raw face once again, the two of them know that without a word, she's already doomed them both with a single, unspoken yes.

***

**Author's Note**: As always, I truly do appreciate reviews, comments and bits of criticism from my wonderful readers. If I wrote more smut for the fandom, would you read it?


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